


Hunger

by Colourcubify



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Deepthroating, Depression, Domestic, Dreams vs. Reality, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eye Sex, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, John Has Trust Issues, John is a Mess, Longing, M/M, Memories, Mind Palace, Mind Palace John Watson, Needy Sherlock, Obsession, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Reality is Flexible, References to Depression, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is a crybaby, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sort Of, Staring, Time is Flexible, Unreliable Narrator, Unstable Sherlock, everyone is a mess, possessive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourcubify/pseuds/Colourcubify
Summary: “Bloody fuck, Sherlock,” John stated, huffing out a shocked laugh, “You're making it sound like you're going to murder me,” Sherlock hummed.“Take you apart, surely. But harm you? Definitely out of the question.”~~~~All Sherlock wants to do is go home to his doctor and beg for his forgiveness. His own stubbornness keeps him away until seeing John in his head isn't enough anymore. No mind palace replica can surpass the real thing. But can he tell what is truly real anymore?AKA the fic that was supposed to be short and sweet, then turned into an angsty monster.





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> I found the quote that inspired this fic years ago on a random Tumblr post and had been saving it just for this. Little did I know, this was going to become my longest short story by a huge margin. What can you do? When my otp demands to be acknowledge, it really demands.
> 
> This is a lot more artsy than my other fics as well, so be aware. Lots of things get repeated. All Moriarty dialogue is taken from s1&2 of the show. Some John dialogue is taken from s3.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

_“I went into the desert to forget about you. But the sand was the color of your hair. The desert sky was the color of your eyes. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.” -Jeffery Eugenides_

***

“ _Sherlock, why can't you be arsed to brush your hair once and a while?_ ”

Echoed laughs bounce through his head, growing gradually louder until they are booming into Sherlock's brain. Stinging his heart. Leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Or maybe that's just the sand. He licks his lips, tongue coming back gritty and dry. Sherlock scolds himself for thinking of John now, when he is so far away from London. When he can never return. Not now. Not after this long. The pain in his doctor's voice is still palpable as it echoes through his mind; the hurt that his selfishness has caused in John. Sherlock hates leaving him this way, but he knows there was no other choice. He thinks wistfully of how things would be if John were here with him, if he were to reveal his trick and be forgiven.

No, that would be even more selfish. John deserves better than the likes of Sherlock Holmes. He would move on. On to someone better. Someone so un-Sherlocky would be much better suited to John, he knows. 

Then why can't he ignore the painful throbbing in his chest as his mind fills with his doctor?

“What does it matter what my hair looks like?” he asks the air, voice rasping. He remembers this day: the day he first claimed John as his own. Or rather, when John claimed him.

“ _Because you look like a mess, and no one is going to take you seriously at the station_ ,” John's ghostly voice reminds him. Sherlock scoffs. What did it matter the way those simple fools looked at him? The only person who is—who was worth his time is John. Sherlock still has trouble forming in words his feelings for his doctor. His emotions towards John always preceded simple _love_. To use it as an encompassing word would be a tragedy, a casual slaughter of the depth of his attachment. No, this animalistic longing has no defining word. That he knows. But _love_ will have to do.

Endless desert sweeps before him. Sherlock doesn't know how long he's been walking for, or how long it's been since he last drank water, but he keeps on. He's been undercover for months on end, trying to find the missing links of Moriarty. Yet every string he has followed, every bit of ash and debris that he found the stink of Moriarty on, has lead to a dead end. His newest expedition to Afghanistan had been a bust, just like all the others. He had thought that perhaps going to where John had been stationed would bring leads...

 

John smoothed a hand down his cheek, caressing almost without touching. Sherlock shuddered a breath. All his nerves felt fried open. Everything had condensed to this one moment. To the hand on his face. To John gazing at him in lust.

“John,” he rasped, a needy whinge in the heavy air surrounding them.

“Just shut up this once, and let me look at you,” came the curt reply. Sherlock's mouth snapped closed like a trap. The fingers traced across his jaw, his cheekbones, his lips. He wished John would just do something, anything, other than this perusal of his being. He could feel his cheeks burning from the attention, something the doctor surely wouldn't miss. Was this how people felt when Sherlock looked at them?

“Close your eyes, Sherlock,” John instructed. The detective obeyed. How could he not?

Sherlock could feel the closeness of the doctor. John was a miniature sun radiating on him. He often wondered how the small man could make the room feel so much warmer just with his mere presence. It was scientifically improbable, but the truth remained. The heat closed in on him, making his skin prickle pleasantly. Sherlock briefly wondered how long this sensation would last, but his brain halted when he felt something pressing onto his lips.

His train of thought derailed and his eyes flew open. John. Was kissing. Him?

Just as the idea began to process, John moved away, a small frown on his face. Sherlock froze. Was that frown because of him? Was John disappointed in him for disobeying a direct order? Did he expect Sherlock to participate in the kissing? How was one even--

“Sherlock, stop thinking,”

The frown was in his voice too.

“Not good?”

Concern mingled in with the frown. Sherlock's brow creased; his head shook a firm 'no'. A sigh escaped John.

“Can I try again?” the doctor asked, “You can keep your eyes open this time if you want.”

A nod this time. John quirked a smile. Sherlock liked it when he smiled. He liked the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, the permanent scars of the joy over his life. Sherlock didn't like how often John gave his smiles out to others. He wanted to keep them just for him. He wanted to tie John up and keep all of him just for Sherlock. Sherlock was better with John. He hadn't needed drugs. He was able to talk civilly with Mycroft. He had even visited his parents again. John made him more capable, more human.

John was kissing him again. It was chaste, just a press of the lips. John was worried of his virtue, he supposed. Worried of spooking him. Sherlock did not have much experience to speak of, but he wasn't entirely dense in the area of sex. His mind palace did have a drawer for such knowledge.

Raising his hands, Sherlock slid one around John's waist, the other threaded into his hair. He felt the doctor start at the suddenness of his actions, but proceeded regardless. His lips crushed into John's, memorizing their size and shape. Snaking out his tongue, Sherlock licked along the line of John's mouth, enticing a startled gasp from the smaller man. Taking advantage of his parted lips, Sherlock slid his tongue in, mapping the inside of John's mouth. He wanted to know everything about John, and this was just one more thing to excel at.

Sherlock nipped his teeth on John's lip, eyes wide open to gauge the reaction. The sweetest sound Sherlock had ever heard dripped from John's mouth then, his eyes shot open with pleasant surprise. His doctor's pupils were blown wide, his breath panting, and it was because of _him_. Because of Sherlock.

“John,” he said, startled at how rough his own voice sounded, “I feel I must warn you, if you make a sound like that again, I cannot be held responsible for my own actions.” His hands roved over every inch of the smaller man he could reach, cataloguing each area that John reacted to.

“Bloody fuck, Sherlock,” John stated, huffing out a shocked laugh, “You're making it sound like you're going to murder me,” Sherlock hummed.

“Take you apart, surely. But harm you? Definitely out of the question.”

John's eyes widened a fraction before Sherlock descended on him again, firmly putting talking to the side.

 

When Sherlock wakes, it's dark. His side aches, and his clothes are filled with even more sand than before. Pushing himself into a seated position, he concludes that he must have fainted from exhaustion. He frowns. Why was he even dreaming of being with John? It's only extending his pain at their separation. His eyes sting, and he brings a hand up to rub at them, finding his face damp. Tears. He can't afford the loss of more water from his body; not if he wants to make it out of this accursed desert alive.

Not that he has much to live for now. John has almost certainly found a new lover at this point. Sherlock has tried to keep track of the time, but lost track at 14 months, 23 days, when he was captured and held underground for an extended period of time. The Afghan soldiers mistook him as an American spy and attempted to ransom him to their government. It was only thanks to Mycroft that he managed to escape as quickly as he had.

Gathering himself, Sherlock gets to his feet unsteadily. His body feels much heavier than it had before his little siesta. He must find water soon. His tongue no longer feels moist, and is more akin to a dry sponge laying in his mouth.

“ _You're not a bloody plant, Sherlock. You need to eat like everybody else!_ ”

He knows this, of course, but its ramifications have not truly been felt up until this moment in time. Still, he doesn't need some ghostly voice of John reminding him.

“ _You know, I'm not sure why I bother sometimes._ ”

'Me neither,' Sherlock thinks back to the voice, 'But I'm glad you did.'

Words he had never said out loud to John, but wishes he had. There's lots of things he knows he should have said. Would they have made a difference in the end? Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't like not knowing.

The desert stretches on in its vastness before him as he walks. Minutes turn into hours. The cold of the wasteland at night seeps into his very being, chilling him to his marrow. He knows he's walking the right direction, but not how long he has walked, nor how long it has been now with his unconsciousness. He had calculated it to be just over a two days walk to his rendezvous with Mycroft's men. Not so long that he needed to bring food or water with him.

“ _So what's the plan now?_ ” he hears John ask. Sherlock shakes his head. He keeps walking. Obviously.

He feels the brush of fingers on his arm, just momentarily, and whips his head to the left. Only barren wastes greet him. A warm puff of air in his ear makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he slaps his hand to his neck, rubbing self consciously. He can feel eyes watching him, but the desert is flat all around for miles.

He keeps walking.

Occasionally he can sense a hand touching him as he walks. Feels lips touching his skin. Hears a familiar laugh ring out in the silence. He knows he's going mad.

He keeps walking.

Eventually he comes upon a small herd of deer in passing. Fauns cling to their mothers' sides like burrs. Bucks stare menacingly at him, daring him to come near. Sherlock knows better than to anger a fully grown buck. He halts in his path to let the deer clear to a safe distance before he carries on, altering his course to where the deer came from. They had looked to be in no rush, nothing to hurry towards, so probability said that they had just come from a watering hole of some kind. Sherlock would rather not delay his leaving this barren land, but John is right. He really does need water.

“ _Oh, now who's the smart one,_ ”

“John, we both know that's still me,” he replies, voice sounding raspy to his ears.

“ _Hmm, says the man who didn't know the earth went round the sun,_ ”

“How many times must I explain to you, John?” Sherlock cries, turning around to face the other man.

Only the desert greets his eyes.

“ _Evidently at least once more, you twat,_ ” says the voice, behind him again. Sherlock steeples his fingers and presses them to his face, exhaling heavily, then turns about once more.

It's not that he really expects to see his doctor standing in the desert before him, Sherlock knows that's an improbability too large to even consider.

Yet a part of him still hopes.

He keeps walking.

Sherlock's legs ache when he finally reaches the watering hole. A small number of animals crowd the small pond, none of which pose much of a threat to him. He dives almost head first to the ground next to the pool, scaring away the few fauna that remain. The dirty water is more delicious than the finest wine, more invigorating than any cup of tea John ever made for him.

“ _Fine, see if I ever make you a cuppa again,_ ”

Sherlock groans through the water in his mouth, gasping for air after drinking his fill. The water leaves grains of sand in his teeth. Coats his throat in grit. At least his tongue feels relatively normal again.

“John,” he croaks, still on his knees, trails of water dripping down his face from wet curls.

“ _Yes, Sherlock?_ ”

He can almost feel John's practised fingers carding through his hair and he sighs, leaning into the imaginary touch. Sherlock closes his eyes as he relaxes.

“I wish I could see you,” he confides in the silence.

“ _I know, love,_ ”

“I wish I could drink your tea,”

“ _I know, love,_ ”

“I wish I hadn't bollocksed everything up,”

Silence follows. The hand disappears from his hair. Sherlock's body begins to droop.

“ _You can't sleep here, Sherlock,_ ” Sherlock scowls, but heaves himself to his weary feet. He'll walk to a safer place, then he can rest.

He manages to trudge another few miles before exhaustion overtakes him and he collapses, the faint ribbons of sunrise beginning to peer over the horizon.

 

He's warm and safe. The smell of 221B surrounds him. The smell of him, and of John.

The smell of home.

Sherlock burrows further into the warm shape before him, running his nose along John's hairline and pressing the faintest kiss to the nape of his neck. His arm tightens around John's waist, feeling the soft curves of his doctor. John makes a sleepy noise of awareness. Sherlock only squeezes tighter.

“She'ock...” John mumbles in his sleep, rolling onto his back in the circle of the detective's arms. Sherlock presses open mouth kisses to the blond's neck as he turns, then traces his ear with his tongue. He feels John shiver at the sensation.

His next kiss goes right beneath his jawline, and he traces the carotid artery down towards his doctor's chest. John is wearing a loose shirt that Sherlock has tried to toss on many occasions, offering to buy John three in its place. John is a simple man, he says, and doesn't need Sherlock to spend the money on him.

But oh, how he wants to.

Sherlock wants to see John dressed in the finest cut suit, displaying his soldier's physique. His broad chest and firm arms. The proportion of his biceps always caught Sherlock's eye. He would spend entire evenings tracing his fingers and mouth along each muscle in those arms. Slowly categorizing each bit of tension, each mark in the skin, each hair.

On those nights, John would sleep well.

Sherlock kisses down to the stretched out neck of the shirt before sliding a hand up John's stomach to display more of his beautiful body.

'All for me,' Sherlock often thought, 'This is all mine,'.

'Until he decides he wants someone else,' a voice in the back of his mind often reminded him.

Sherlock often ignored it.

But sometimes he couldn't.

Sometimes taking John apart piece by agonizing piece wasn't enough. Sometimes John screaming his name into the pillow at night sounded like someone else's name. Sometimes Sherlock could swear John was looking a _bit_ too long at a woman on the street, or a man on the tube.

Those times Sherlock would throw himself into a case. Seclude himself into his mind palace for days on end until he forgot those traitorous thoughts.

But no matter what, they always came back.

Sherlock wants to see John without this wretched shirt on. Wants to cover his chest in marks, to claim him again and again until John can think of no one but him.

He teeth catch over the sensitive flesh of John's bullet wound, making the doctor squirm in sleep. He laps his tongue over it as an apology. He would never hurt John. Would never cause him any sort of pain.

Yet he has.

Sherlock knows this is a dream. Knows he still exists out in the desert. But he wishes it weren't.

He wishes he hasn't hurt his doctor.

Wishes he could go home, kiss it better, go back to their life.

John moves below him and he glances up. Pale blue eyes blink sleepily down at him. A fond smile curls over lips as a hand cards its way through his hair.

“John,” he croaks, voice hitching. The hand moves down his face, gripping his jaw and pulling him forwards.

John's lips feel like nothing else.

The kiss starts off chaste, just a brief press of lips in greeting. As their lips part, Sherlock lunges after them. They meet again more hungrily. Sherlock breathes John in as if he's oxygen. How has he survived so long without John? How did he survive before? His tongue presses in, mapping out the shape of the other's mouth before tangling with John's. His doctor makes a surprised noise before reciprocating in earnest. The hand is back in his hair, gripping firmly this time, and another snakes around his hips, pressing their growing hardnesses together. Sherlock breaks the kiss with a moan before gripping John's lower lip in his teeth and sucking it in his mouth. John's eyes flick open, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Sherlock,” he pants, grinding up into the man above him. “Look at what you do to me,”

Sherlock replies by attacking his neck, leaving red marks and hickies in his wake. John's head falls back to accommodate his onslaught, beginning a steady rhythm with their hips. His fingers knead into Sherlock's thighs and arse, aiding the process.

He can feel his release slowly building, the heat in his gut burning his body alive. John's voice trembles below him as he makes his way back to those lips to swallow the sounds. His doctor moans appreciatively when he slips a hand below the waistband of pyjamas Sherlock bought for him. He palms John's member gently before gripping it fully and stroking in time with John's thrusts.

“Fuck,” John groans into his mouth, fingers digging almost painfully into Sherlock's arse. The detective keeps up his pace, thumbing the head the way he knows John likes. He moves his mouth to John's ear and slips the lobe into his mouth. The blond's words are no more than babbles as Sherlock nips the bit of flesh, accompanying it with a firm squeeze of his hand. His free hand goes to John's chest, pinching the sensitive nubs there. John is nothing but a ball of pleasure now, thrusting wildly into Sherlock's hand as he lathers his jaw and ear with attention.

“That's it, John,” he murmurs to his doctor, “Come for me,”

The words work like a spell, and John is spilling into Sherlock's hand with a grunt. The brunet captures his lips again, kissing him deeply as the orgasm wracks him. John looks unexplainable when he comes. Sherlock craves the sight with every fibre of his being.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispers as their lips part, “I don't deserve you, John. You're the best part of me, and I'm so sorry,”

John hushes him with another kiss before leaning their foreheads together.

“Then come home,”

 

The words echo around inside his head as he wakes. 'Come home'. Such an easy thing to say. Not an easy thing to do. Not after how he had left.

“How am I supposed to come home?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet. “You'll hate me if I come home,”

“ _You won't know that for sure until you're home,_ ”

He scoffs. “John, your idiocy _never_ ceases to amaze me,”

The sharp feeling of a slap lights up his cheek. Sherlock stops, lifting a hand to it. John is standing before him.

“ _And your ability to be an absolute **arsehole** never ceases to amaze me,_ ”

“John,” he whispers, reaching out a hand. It passes through his doctor, _obviously_ , he's so _stupid_ , of _course_ it's a hallucination. John smiles sadly at him, pressing a ghostly hand to his inflamed cheek, almost like an apology.

“ _Come home, Sherlock,_ ” he repeats as the wind whisks him away. Sherlock is left staring at the empty desert before him, an empty feeling in his core. His entire body aches, he realizes. The hunger and the desert are finally catching up to him. He stumbles as he takes his next step, falling heavily to his knees. The desert sun beams down on him, and the sand below him feels like fire.

“ _I will burn you,_ ”

'No,' Sherlock thinks, 'Not you, not now'. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing deeply though his nose. The thick scent of cologne hits him, familiar in the worst way. When he blinks open again, Moriarty stands in John's place. A smirk plays over his lips as he stares down at Sherlock, hands in his pockets.

“ _It turns out **you're** ordinary, just like all of them,_ ”

“Go away,” he commands, “You're dead,”

Moriarty clicks his tongue chastisingly.

“ _That's what people **DO**!_ ”

Memories rush back to Sherlock. John, with a bomb strapped to his chest, laser dots marking every inch of his face. Sherlock, helpless but to listen to Moriarty. Bart's hospital. Sherlock's letter.

The fall.

“ _I have loved this. This little game of ours._ ”

Sherlock grips his hair, tugging as hard as he dares to get Moriarty out. His voice seeps under his skin like a poison.

“ _He's sweet. I can see why you like having him around._ ”

“Leave,” he commands as strongly as he can, though he can hear his voice shaking, “Get out of my head.”

“ _But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets._ ”

He curls in on himself, a low keening sound escaping him.

“ _I will burn the **heart** out of you._ ”

“ _No!_ ”

 

Sherlock wishes he could just be left to sleep. Instead, steady beeps rouse him. His head pounds, and his body aches. The soft rolling of wheels is deafening in his ears. The IV in his arm itches. He licks his lips, testing. Though still chapped, his mouth feels almost normal once again. The sand that coated his body for weeks on end is gone. This must be Mycroft's doing. His eyes sweep the room, lingering on the closed door. He estimates it will be just under two minutes, forty seconds before any nurses will come to his room after he removes the IV. It might be enough time to get a layout of where he is.

He rips the IV out.

Sherlock loses almost a minute getting his feet under him. His legs feel like jelly, and he almost keels over before crossing the room. The knob of the door feels frozen in his hand. He swings it open.

Beyond the room lays a white hallway lined with doors identical to his own. Scuffed rubber trimming edges where the walls meet the tile floor. He's in a hospital.

Obviously.

But _where?_

Behind him, the machine set to monitor him begins to beep erratically.

A minute and a half gone.

Sherlock steps out into the hallway, picking a direction at random, and begins to walk slowly down it. The door to his room swings softly shut behind him. All he needs is a window. Just one glimpse of the outside world, to know for sure where he is right now. If only his _bloody legs_ would stop shaking as he walks.

Door by door passes. No windows. Is he underground? Is this some secret facility of Mycroft's? Sherlock wouldn't put it past him.

He hears hurried footsteps behind him, a door slam open. He has twenty, maybe thirty seconds.

He urges his legs on.

Sherlock passes a set of double doors into the next section of the hospital. Couches lay scattered about, threadbare and worn. A couple sits on one, leaning together for comfort. It smells of sick people. Sherlock wrinkles his nose. A third person is sitting across the room in a wheelchair, staring out a window at the sky.

A window.

Sherlock surges forward in desperation, only to have his leg buckle under him, casting him to the floor. He lands in a heap with a loud _thud_. The heads of the three in the room turn to look at him, but he scant cares. The sound of footsteps is drawing nearer. He needs to _hurry_.

Dragging his way across the floor, Sherlock hears the double doors open, and a sharp “ _Mr. Holmes!_ ” perforates the air. He ignores it. He needs to _see_.

The steps approach, a crisp staccato. He's two meters away.

Hands grip under his arms to pull him to his feet. He goes willingly up with them. He can't see out the window from the ground anyway.

“There we go, now, back to bed with you,” the voice tells him, but Sherlock isn't listening. He can see out the window now. Can recognize the silhouette of those buildings anywhere. He knows where he is. He's in London.

He's home.

 

The nurse straps him into bed when he's back in the room. Not that he needs the restraints. He's not going to run away again. Not now that he's home.

'You aren't home if John isn't here,' the wormlike thought points out. Sherlock shakes his head to dislodge it.

“I need to see my brother,” he tells the nurse, his voice scarcely there. They pause in their leaving to give him a nod, then are gone.

And now he waits.

By the time Mycroft arrives, Sherlock is counting the number of specs in the ceiling tiles for the fourth time. Four hundred, seventy-three. Four hundred, seventy-four. Four hundred, seventy-five.

“How lovely to see you, brother mine,” Mycroft greets. Sherlock shows no signs of having heard him.

Four hundred, seventy-six. Four hundred, seventy-seven.

“How can you claim your 'need to see me' if you don't even look at me when I get here?” his brother complains, taking a seat in the chair next to his bed, resting his umbrella on the arm.

Four hundred, seventy-eight. Four hundred, seventy-nine.

“Oh, I get it,” Mycroft groans, “This is you pouting about almost dying in the desert. Well, it wasn't my idea for you to go out there, Sherlock. You've only yourself to blame for that whole mes--”

“Mycroft, do be so kind as to stop sticking your oversized nose where it does not belong,” Sherlock snaps, tearing his eyes from the ceiling to pin his brother with them.

“Brother dear, if I had not 'stuck my nose' in your business, you would have been dead within the hour in that desert. A simple 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss,”

“I want to see John,”

Mycroft's smile drops from his face at the words. His eyes go stony.

“I haven't seen the good doctor since your _fall_ , Sherlock. What makes you think he will be so willing to come when I call?”

“I need to see him. Tell him I'm not dead,” Mycroft huffs out a laugh.

“You think that after two years, he will just accept that?”

“I need to explain to him. I need to have him know why I did it,” Sherlock's rambling now, he knows. Why doesn't Mycroft understand? He feels a hand stroking his hair, and he relaxes into it. Mycroft still sits primly in the folding chair.

“ _He doesn't understand because he's never loved anyone before,_ ” John tells him. Sherlock frowns. “ _Not like you love me,_ ”

“Don't be stupid John, no one has,” he replies, seeing Mycroft's face twist in concern at his words. Sherlock's brain stutters to a halt and his expression closes off.

“Sherlock...” his brother starts, holding out a hand slowly towards the detective as if he were an animal to be frightened, “Are you talking to John right now?”

Sherlock stiffens, looking past his brother.

“I don't see how that's any of your concern,” he spits, staring intently at a spot of peeling paint on the wall. His fingernails dig crescent shaped marks into his palms.

“Sherlock, I only want to help you,” Mycroft chides.

“There's nothing to be helped, thank you for the visit, Mycroft,” Sherlock closes his eyes and leans back into the pillow, slipping away to his mind palace. The room melts away around him as he imagines his way back to 221B. John is sitting in his chair next to the fire, laptop over his legs. Sherlock treads softly over to him before falling to his knees before him. John looks up in surprise.

“Sherlock, what's wrong?” his doctor asks, immediately caressing his face. John sets the computer to the side and leans forward, elbows on his knees. He makes hushing noises as his thumbs begin to sweep under Sherlock's eyes. “Love, why are you crying?” Sherlock stiffens, unaware of the tears leaking steadily down his face.

“John,” he croaks, vision blurry, voice watery, “John I'm home but I'm not and you aren't there and there's only white and Mycroft and sad people and sick people and I told Mycroft I needed you but he said you wouldn't come--”

The blond hushes him with a soft kiss. His eyes are sad when he pulls away.

“My beautiful genius, you need to calm your mind,” he says, kissing each of Sherlock's eyes in turn, “What will help? What can I do?”

Sherlock blinks owlishly at him before raising his hands to John's lap. Long fingers undo the button, make short work of the zip. John's hands stop him, turning Sherlock's face back up to his.

“Are you sure this will help?” he asks breathlessly. His face is already tinged pink and Sherlock can't help but lick his lips at the flush. John's eyes track the sight hungrily.

“John, I need you,” he states, leaving no room for argument. John hesitates just a moment longer before relenting, releasing Sherlock's face and settling back into the chair. Sherlock immediately returns to the task at hand, slipping his fingers into John's pants to touch his rapidly hardening member. John sighs contentedly, touching Sherlock again unconsciously, fingers blazing trails over his head and neck. Sherlock arches into the touch like a cat, starved for attention. John chuckles lowly.

“Such a demanding thing you are,” he muses, scraping his nails on the detective's scalp gently. Sherlock hums in agreement as he pulls John from his clothes and leans forward, his breath cascading gently over the throbbing hardness. His hand strokes it gently, bringing it to full hardness, before he drags the flat of his tongue up the length of it. John's breath stutters, his head falling back. The hand in his hair clenches and unclenches, pulling his hair pleasantly. Sherlock trails his tongue over the tip, circling it slowly. He takes his time. He has all the time in the world here. No amount of John's urging hands will make him go faster. He wants, no he _needs_ , to take John apart right now, piece by piece. His lips wrap around the head and he sucks lightly, pumping his hand along the length. He hears John hiss his name above him, but pays him no mind for now. He won't listen until John can't pronounce his name.

Inch by careful inch, Sherlock makes his way down John's cock, licking and sucking with extreme precision. He knows every sweep of his tongue that makes John squirm, every ounce of pressure needed to make his doctor melt. He slips a finger behind John's bollocks to press at the sensitive patch that resides there. John practically _yelps_ , thrusting into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock relaxes to let the blond fuck into his mouth. Had been expecting it to happen. John always get to a point where he can't control the movement of his hips, and Sherlock craves him passing it.

The first time it happened, Sherlock had been startled into choking. John had apologized profusely, embarrassed to no end, but Sherlock found he hadn't really minded. The second time it happened, he'd been prepared for it, relaxing his throat enough for John's cock to slide right down with minimal resistance. John had kissed every inch of his body as thanks that night.

This time, Sherlock is seeking that feeling. He wants John to fall apart in his mouth, fucking down his throat, screaming his name, thinking of only Sherlock.

Even if it is all just in his head.

Sherlock redoubles his efforts, nose touching the pale curls on John's body with every thrust into his mouth. He moans around the thick member in his mouth, making John swear at the vibrations sent along it. His hands are fists in the detective's curls, his eyes are glazed over as he stares down at the man between his legs. Sherlock looks up through his lashes to meet his gaze, putting all his love and lust into the look. John groans.

“Sherl,” he pants, hands caressing everywhere he can reach, “Sher...lock,”

'Come for me,' Sherlock's eyes command as he takes John all the way in and swallows around him. John swears as a moan is ripped from his throat and suddenly he's shuddering, spurting into Sherlock's mouth. The brunet pulls back slightly so as not to choke himself as the hot liquid hits his tongue. He continues sucking, milking John for all he's worth. John's eyes are still glazed over as Sherlock slips his now soft member from his mouth and surges up to kiss his doctor. He wants John to taste himself on his tongue, to know just who it is can bring him this much pleasure. He needs John to remember that he can do something for him. Only Sherlock will ever know him this well, will ever be able to take him apart until he begs for release.

John tucks himself away right before Sherlock settles on the chair on top of him, like a cat, nuzzling into his neck. John's arms come up around him, warm and comforting, stroking his back gently.

“Do you feel better?” John murmurs, pressing his lips into the detective's hair. Sherlock nods, burrowing further into the embrace. His legs are folded awkwardly under him. They will probably be pins and needles when he finally stands, but it's worth it. The smell of sweat, of laundry, of _John_ invades his senses. He's home.

 

Sherlock isn't quite sure how long he's been in his mind palace. Days pass in 221B. He wakes later the same evening in bed, a warm arm draped loosely over his waist. Twisting to the side, he can see the silhouette of his doctor, sleeping soundly. John used to have nightmares, still does, but not the same way. Sherlock remembers being woken up, pinned to the bed by his neck, John's eyes glazed over, unseeing. It had been a long moment before John realized that the person touching his face, calling his name out, was not an enemy. He had been so sad that day. Sherlock remembers it bitterly. John tries not to remember.

As the days go by, they fall into domesticity. John makes tea in the morning. Sherlock solves crimes. John blogs about it. They never leave the flat. They have sex. A lot of sex. Sherlock has a lot of time to make up for, and a lot to apologize for. Words seem to fall flat. So Sherlock never tries.

John never asks.

Sherlock knows that he's being selfish. He knows that he will have to go back to the real world soon. The world where John thinks he's dead.

He still doesn't know if John will ever forgive him.

Sherlock's not sure if he would blame him.

But the gentle touches his John here gives him feel so real. The soft looks from across the room, the playful bantering, the way John holds him at night. Sherlock can't convince himself to give it up.

He wonders if Mycroft is telling John what happened.

A hand on his cheek startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up into concerned blue eyes.

“Alright there, Sherlock?” John asks. John discovered months before his leaving that touch is the easiest way to bring him into the present, out of his mind. Sherlock furrows his brow, steepling his fingers before his face.

“A query, John,” he starts. John raises an eyebrow at him before sitting in his own chair. “If someone were to fake their own death, then come back to tell you it was fake years after, would you be upset?”

John gives him a bland look. “This is all hypothetical, clearly.” His voice drips with sarcasm. Sherlock waves the comment away with an impatient hand.

“I need an ordinary person's perspective on this,” he explains. At John's wry expression he lets out a beleaguered sigh. “John, for the last time, ordinary is not an insult when it comes to you,”

“Sure sounds like one,” John fires back.

“Please just answer the question,”

“Of course I'd be upset, Sherlock,” he replies, exasperated, “You can't just lead someone on that way, _especially_ not with death. I'd have mourned for you. Probably gone back to therapy. Maybe started dating again to get over the pain—no don't give me that hurt puppy look. I'm just 'answering your question'. I'm _ordinary_ , remember? Ordinary people try to get on with their lives after the death of a loved one.”

Sherlock sighs.

He knows he's stayed too long.

He knows he has to go back to that hospital room soon.

Back to the real London.

Where the real John is.

Instead, he repositions himself to the floor in front of his John, laying his head and arms on his lap. John's hand instinctually begins petting his hair. Sherlock can't bring himself to leave.

 

“ _Sherlock,_ ”

He can hear John calling him. But John is right here across from him, engrossed in his computer. He looks up quickly at Sherlock's intense scrutiny, his mouth quirking slightly in a smile, before going back to whatever he's browsing. He's quite used to being stared at by now. Sherlock has on occasion solved a crime while looking exclusively at John's face.

“ _I know you're in there, you great, bloody idiot,_ ”

No, that was definitely not John. At least, not John-in-his-head. But it sounds so like him.

“John, how are you doing that?” he asks, causing John to look up in confusion.

“Doing what?” He can see John saying the words, but his voice comes out muffled. Sherlock likens it to him being underwater. He gets up, reaching for John. His hand rests on his shoulder momentarily, then passes through. It feels as though the appendage is moving through mud.

“John,” he says, hearing the panic in his own voice as the other man is severed in half, mist swirling up out of the wound. “John!”

He's running his fingers through John now, distorting his image, the heavy fog that is his doctor being churned around by his own hand. Slowly, 221B crumbles away around him, brick by brick, leaving a black void in its place. Sherlock watches the setting drip slowly away. The darkness encroaches in on him. He turns back to John. John is gone. 221B is gone. Where is he? Still in his mind palace? Somewhere farther, more real, but less reality? The panic sets in as the last scrap of colour slips away. Sherlock spins in place, hands in his hair. He can feel his eyes burning, his throat welling up. What happened? Where did John go?

“ _John!_ ” he screams into the blank void. There's no echo. His voice falls flat.

“ _Mycroft, why's he shaking like that?_ ”

He's finally going insane. Maybe that's what this is.

In the distance, an alarm sounds. Soft, but steadily growing louder. Sherlock walks towards it. Knows not what else to do.

“ _Sherlock, stay with me,_ ”

The alarm is blaring now, deafening him. He supposes it's better than the silence. The blackness feels like it's permeated his eyes, sinking into his brain. It's comforting, in a way, to know that John won't have to see him like this. Hollow eyed and broken; shell of the man he was.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

The alarm stops. He can still hear it ringing. Maybe he always will now. Maybe this is his penance for what he's done.

A hand touches his wrist, pressing lightly, before fading.

Infinity with ghostly touches and echoed voices. Sherlock thinks he could live with that. At least he won't be entirely alone.

He feels a firmer press on his neck, feels his pulse beat stubbornly against the spectral touch. Another hand shakes his shoulder, roughly now.

“ _Sherlock, you arse, you can't do this to me again,_ ”

Do what, exactly?

He can't recall.

Who's speaking to him? The voice is so familiar, but he can't put a finger on it.

“ _Not again, please,_ ”

Has he been here before? He thinks he would remember this void. Thinks he would remember this ache of isolation.

“ _Sherlock, it's John, please come home,_ ”

Sherlock blinks in the darkness. He knows that name.

John.

Army doctor. Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Trained at St. Bart's hospital. Served three years in Afghanistan. Excellent shot. Shoots with his right hand, despite being left handed. Doesn't take sugar in his tea. Isn't afraid of his brother. Sherlock's moral compass.

_John_.

His eyes shoot open, the white of the walls burning his retinas. He hisses in pain, squinting until he can see in the brightness. His hands grasp for something he isn't sure is really there. Sherlock can't tell if the voice was real or not. Can't tell if anything do with John is real or not.

A familiar hand strokes his head, and he finally glances to his left. He takes a long moment to inspect the worn jumper, the faded jeans, the unkempt blond hair. Moves his gaze to rest on the figure's face. There's more lines than he remembers being. Those blue eyes are more tired than he had imagined them being. But it's him. In the flesh.

Unmistakably.

“John,” he croaks, leaning into the hand that has moved to cup his cheek. His throat feels like fire when he speaks. His sight blurs as tears roll down his cheeks. John smiles tiredly at him.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he greets wryly. Sherlock winces, bringing a hand up to hold John's to his face.

“John, are you really here? I'm so sorry. I can explain everything to you. You're so warm. You must be real. Please don't go, again. John, I was so alone. _John,_ ” he babbles, voice cutting in and out as he speaks. John shushes him.

“It's really me. We'll talk later,” is all he says before turning to the other people in the room. Sherlock does not, choosing to settle back on the pillows and look only at John. His _John_. In flesh and blood. His John, who isn't scolding him the way he imagined. His John, who isn't avoiding touching him the way he imagined. His John, who, despite everything, is here, with Sherlock, in this hospital, carding his fingers through his hair, lulling him into a sleepy haze. Sherlock reaches for John's free hand, tugging it to his lips to kiss each finger in turn. His nails are torn short to the quick, the skin angry and red around each fingertip. Stress coping mechanism. Sherlock tangles his own fingers with John's, cradling the hand to his chest. John spares him a glance and a ghost of a smile. Sherlock drinks it in intently.

The ebb and flow of conversation surrounds him, and he knows it's about him, but Sherlock can't bring himself to listen. Not with John here, looking as though he hasn't slept in weeks. Sherlock longs to investigate every inch of John to see what else has changed since he's been gone. He can tell John's been wearing these clothes for at least three days in a row, and has slept sitting up for the last two nights. The posture of his shoulders shows weariness, but relief. His hair has gone uncut for several months longer than normal, leaving it shaggy over his ears. Too busy? No. Lack of concern for himself, Sherlock would wager. A coffee stain on his jumper proves that.

The jumper. It's the one Sherlock himself bought for John at Christmas years before. Well worn, sandy beige. Highest quality wool money could buy. John never used to wear it. Said it was too expensive to wear about the flat. Why was he wearing it now?

Ah.

Sentiment.

Something primal purrs deep inside Sherlock. John is wearing his jumper, because he wants to be reminded of Sherlock. This put the probability of John having a girlfriend down to twenty-five percent.

Still not what Sherlock wants, but better than he had hoped for.

The room is silent. Sherlock feels eyes watching him.

“Mycroft thinks you should stay here for another week or so until your health improves,” John tells him. Sherlock scowls, eyes narrowed.

“Mycroft thinks a lot of dim-witted things, John, don't listen to him,” he replies smartly, voice still catching. Laughter lights John's eyes, though none is released. Sherlock hears the murmur of an annoyed voice to his right. He doesn't care to look. His doctor says something to the voice and he distantly hears a door close. John bites his lip as he looks back at Sherlock, hesitating before he speaks. The laughter is gone from his face. Sherlock's eyes track the movement like a hawk. Nervousness. Embarrassment. Anger.

“I don't live in the flat anymore, Sherlock,” he tells him. Sherlock freezes. Opens and closes his mouth. John holds up a hand, the one that had previously been petting Sherlock. “Don't...just don't talk right now. I just couldn't be there. Not with you...” He swallows thickly, choosing his words. “...gone. Christ, Sherlock, I could barely be anywhere we used to go. I haven't spoken to Mrs. Hudson in months. Greg stopped texting me after the first year I didn't respond. I haven't been able to hold a job, let alone sleep soundly at night. Thank god for my pension,” He covers his face with his hand, laughing with no humour. “I've been seeing my therapist again, for all the good that's doing. I've been having nightmares of you--” He pauses, swallowing. Sherlock can see his eyes glistening. “Of you falling,” he finishes in a whisper.

“John,” Sherlock starts only to be cut off with a harsh look. His mouth falls shut with a _click_. He tightens his grip on John's hand, lest he try to pull it back.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, your skull was bashed open,” John cries, running his hand through his hair, messing it further. “I checked your pulse. You were _dead_. I went to your _funeral_. I _buried you._ ” He's breathing hysterically now. Sherlock stays quiet. “You know what I said to your grave afterwards?” John asks him. Sherlock shakes his head. “Don't be dead. I asked you for one more miracle, for me. How could you do that to me?”

“Short version,” Sherlock murmurs, “Not dead.”

John's gaze turns steely. His free hand becomes a fist, clenching and unclenching on his leg. He breaths in a shuddering breath.

“Two years,” he says, looking down at the fist, “How could you do that?” Sherlock doesn't say anything. Doesn't know what John wants to hear. “ _How?_ ”

“John, I--”

“ _One word_ , Sherlock, that's _all_ I would have needed!” John thunders, “ _One word_ to let me know you were alive!” John's eyes are glass. Sherlock's world is too, and the cracks keep splitting farther out. John could leave, here and now, never come back. Sherlock caused him immense pain. John, the one person in the world he had swore to protect, he had hurt almost to the point of no return.

“I'm sorry,” is all that he can say. “John, I'm _sorry_.” He grips John's hand to the point of pain, but John says nothing, lost in thought. The fist loosens slightly.

“This isn't the end of this,” John tells him eventually in a brittle voice, and Sherlock nods quickly in response. He knows it will take time for John to heal.

“Can we go home?” Sherlock asks after minutes of silence. John stares at him contemplatively in silence before sighing and nodding.

 

221B smells nothing as it should. Instead, it reeks of dust and mildew, of an old place long forgotten. Sherlock is helped into the flat with an arm over John's shoulders. Despite the smell, everything is in its place. Encapsulated in time. John lowers him onto the sofa and guides him into a laying position. A blanket is draped over him, and John tells him a firm “sleep” before moving to walk away. Sherlock grasps at his hand as he goes, squeezing it. John gives him a weak smile in return as he drops Sherlock's hand.

When Sherlock wakes, it's to the smell of cleaning products. The dust no longer rests in the air, and the entire flat looks slightly brighter. He can hear John puttering about in the kitchen. He's unsure if this is reality or not.

“John,” he calls softly, lifting himself from his reclined state. The sounds from the kitchen halt, and John's head pops out around the corner. He's gotten a haircut since Sherlock last laid eyes on him, and he's changed clothes, but the lines still remain on his face. The tiredness still rests in his eyes. Sherlock wonders if he's slept since they returned to 221B. Wonders how long he himself has been asleep.

“You're awake,” John says, crossing the room to him. He presses a cool hand to Sherlock's forehead. “You still have a fever. Are you hungry? I can warm some soup,”

Sherlock slides his fingers down the blond's arm, watching the hairs on it raise at the touch. John pulls back as though burned. Sherlock feels disappointment well up inside him. He doesn't comment on it.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asks instead. John hums, turning back to the kitchen.

“About two days?” the doctor guesses, rustling through the drawers for the can opener. He makes a small _aha_ as he recovers it. Sherlock drinks it in.

“Did you sleep?”

John pauses, only for a second, but long enough for Sherlock to see, even in his state.

“So, soup?” John counters, pulling two bowls down from the cupboard. Sherlock heaves himself to his feet and moves towards John. His doctor is ignoring him, choosing to busy himself with the can. Sherlock's eyes trace the outline of John's body. He's lost weight.

“John, you can't possibly look after me if you aren't looking after yourself,” Sherlock chides, slotting himself behind John and tucking his nose into his neck. He can feel John tense at his presence, but ignores it. Instead, he breathes in John's scent, committing it back to memory. His arm unconsciously wraps around John's waist. He feels John lean into the embrace for a moment before he rips himself away, eyes stony as he looks at the detective.

“You didn't seem to care about my well being when you buggered off for two years,” John spits. Sherlock sighs heavily.

“John, that's just your emotion talking. You know I care about you,” Sherlock argues. John stops him with a hand.

“Not yet, Sherlock, I'm not ready for this yet.”

Sherlock relents, backing off to the living room once again. He curls up, facing the back of the sofa, willing the wetness of his eyes away. John will come around. He has to.

Eventually.

 

It's dark when he wakes again. The blanket has been draped over him once more, as is an arm. Sherlock rolls gently to look at John's sleeping face, resting on the edge of the couch. He's sprawled on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath him, one arm across Sherlock's waist. The brunet carefully brushes his bangs off his face, leaving his hand to rest at the nape of John's neck. His breath huffs out softly on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock can't remember the last time he was so happy.

 

John warms up to him again slowly, but surely. After a couple more days, he doesn't recoil from Sherlock's casual touches. A few more days, he's initiating a few of his own. The simple touches make Sherlock's blood thrum through his veins. Knuckles grazing over his cheekbones. Hand pressing softly into the small of his back. Fingers threading with the hair at the nape of his neck. Sherlock is preening under any attention.

He kisses John over Chinese take-out one night weeks in, unable to stop himself. John is obviously shaken. Sherlock apologizes. John's lips taste of sweet and sour. Sherlock wants to kiss him again.

He doesn't.

Instead he waits. Waits for John to return the affection. No matter how much Sherlock longs to fall to his knees before John and beg him for forgiveness using every tool at his disposal, he knows that would scare John off. No, better he wait for John to initiate now.

John doesn't make any move to kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock is impatient. Has always been impatient. But more so when it comes to John. Mycroft calls him childish and selfish. Those traits are twofold when it comes to John. His doctor can simultaneously bring out the best and the worst in him. The more days pass without John making a move on him, the worse he gets. He begins to do anything to get John to look at him more, to touch him more. Complaining of the cold in his room so John stays the night in his bed. Pretending he can't lift himself from his chair so John helps him up. Lounging in nothing but his thin robe and pants, legs slung out on the couch so John can't help but stare at the slim, milky length of them.

'Petulant child,' says the traitorous voice in his head one evening as he lays in bed, John beside him but not touching him. 'He's obviously not interested in you like that anymore.' Sherlock's nails dig angry red crescents into his palms. John just needed time. Sherlock could give him that. Sherlock would give John anything.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers into the quiet of the night. John shifts slightly in his sleep. Sherlock can't help but turn to look at him. The moonlight rests on his face, casting the crevices in shadow, giving him an unearthly appearance. His chest rises and falls slowly as he breaths. Sherlock sets his hand over it, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. “Forgive me, John,”

“ _I'm almost ready,_ ” John confides in his ear, pressing a kiss to the shell. “ _Just a bit longer, love,_ ”

“But how _much_ longer?” Sherlock murmurs in return, sighing at the faint feel of an arm around his waist, mirroring how his arm is on John. John-in-his-head huffs a laugh.

“ _Always so demanding,_ ” he says fondly. Sherlock scowls.

“Only when it comes to you,” he tells the man. John moves below his arm, waking partially. He blinks blearily at the detective.

“Alright there, Sherlock?” he asks sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. Sherlock slinks his arm farther around him, tightening his grip. He no longer feels the ghostly touch. Real John is here. His lips graze John's hair, as he knows for this moment it is fine. Knows sleep-addled John is soft and forgiving.

“Of course, John,” A squeeze of his arm accompanies the statement. John makes a humming noise and turns to burrow his nose into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock scarcely breaths for fear of fully waking his doctor. His chest aches at the familiarity of the action. He needs John to be _his_ again. Entirely.

Sherlock kisses John's head more firmly, allowing his lips to linger. His hand strokes small circles on John's back, making John snuggle contentedly into his chest. The blond's legs tangle with his, making their bodies entirely flush.

Sherlock doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he stays awake. Watches John sleep. Touches him freely like a starving man eats, though never anything untoward. Nothing unexplainable to John should he wake. Just innocent taction. The need to feel the way a child does. Reacquainting himself with the shape of John. With the texture of his skin. With the thickness of each hair strand.

John wakes with the sun. Military training, even now.

He wakes slowly, eyelashes fanning on Sherlock's collarbone while he blinks the sleep from his eyes. His legs disentangle from Sherlock's, and his body rolls slightly away. Sherlock feels at a loss as the chill of the morning hits his chest. He keeps his own arm firmly around the blond, trapping him as close as he can while feigning sleep. John makes no move to escape, however, seemingly content to stay in Sherlock's arms. The detective doesn't dare open his eyes. Refuses to break whatever magic is happening.

He waits. What for, he's not sure. But still, he waits.

Minutes pass. Sherlock wishes he could tell what John is thinking. He knows the man is still awake. Can feel him below his arm.

John finally speaks. Barely audible. Just one word.

“Sherlock,”

He doesn't respond. Doesn't so much as twitch. Forces himself to keep breathing regularly. He can feel John shifting next to him. He wants to see. He's too scared to look.

Chapped lips touch his cheek, barely there. Breath cascades over his face. Sherlock can't tell if he's imagining this or not, the touch is so faint. The lips press to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock stops breathing. Hopes John won't notice. That John is real.

It takes everything Sherlock has not to kiss back as John finally slots their mouths together. It's brief, chaste, intoxicating. Sherlock wants a hundred more. Wants to push John back into the bed and devour his mouth. Wants and wants and _wants_.

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly as John pulls away. John looks surprised, but not overly so. Mostly just embarrassed to have been caught. Even quirks a small smile.

“Good morning,” he greets. Sherlock can't help but stare, taking in the twist of his lips, the flush on his cheeks. Sherlock leans in, resting his forehead against John's. John doesn't stiffen. Doesn't pull back. Tilts his chin up towards Sherlock. The detective runs a shuddering hand down John's face, cupping it reverently. Moving at a glacial pace, Sherlock kisses him. John doesn't recoil. Quite the opposite. Presses back with equal force.

Sherlock kisses him slowly. Thoroughly. Licks his way into John's mouth. Remaps the shape of the cavity. Threads his hand into John's hair as he pushes him back into the bed. John squeaks at the suddenness, yet makes no move to get away from Sherlock's hungry mouth and covetous hands. The taller man swings a leg over, straddling him. Presses their twin hardnesses together as the kiss intensifies. John's hands are roving over his back, dipping to squeeze his arse, just the way he had dreamed of it all those weeks ago. Sherlock grips his lower lip in his teeth, nipping lightly, making John gasp into his mouth. Their tongues tangle, a messy dance. Sherlock sets a pace with his hips, and John matches it. Sherlock is rapidly approaching orgasm. Feels like a teenager about to come in his pants for the first time. From the looks of things, John isn't faring much better. He wrenches himself away from John's mouth to pay some attention to his jaw and ears. The only sound in the room is their panting breaths. The rustling of cloth. John slips his hands below the band of Sherlock's sleep pants, a finger gently stroking over the pucker of his arse. Sherlock moans into John's ear. His lips press wetly against his neck without purpose now. All he can think of is John touching him again.

“Jo—John,” he whimpers as John slowly circles the twitching hole. He feels John faintly kiss his hair. The finger brushes over once more, nearly making Sherlock sob at the sensation. It has been so long. How had he lived two years without John?

“What is it you want, Sherlock?” John murmurs, finger teasingly exploring. A soft mewling sound comes from Sherlock. He can barely think for wanting.

“P—please, John,” he gets out, voice whingy even to his own ears. John's smile turns devious as he turns Sherlock's face back to his, kissing him firmly. After pulling away, he presses his fingers to the brunet's mouth. Sherlock sucks the fingers in eagerly, coating them liberally with saliva.

“Is this what you want, love?” he asks, voice dark and husky with desire as he presses the first finger slowly into Sherlock. Sherlock's head falls forward onto John as a moan is ripped from his throat. The digit pumps in and out a few times slowly, so Sherlock can adjust to the stretch, then probes deeper, searching. It isn't long before he finds what he seeks, and Sherlock jerks, seeing stars. “Is that the spot, Sherlock?” John grins up lasciviously at him. Sherlock only whimpers.

John is merciless in his onslaught, slipping a second finger in to work Sherlock open, brushing his prostate with almost every thrust. Sherlock can do nothing but rock himself between the fingers and John's cock. His senses feel overloaded. John grasps his jaw with his free hand and crushes their lips together. The detective moans into his mouth, feeling himself teetering on the brink. Then John stops. Stops moving, stops kissing. Sherlock sobs in loss. John's eyes are dark.

“This isn't me forgiving you, Sherlock,” John tells him, pumping his fingers ever-so-slowly into Sherlock. Sherlock nods rapidly. He knows. Knows this is just a temporary release for them. Knows there's still a long road ahead. But he still needs this. Needs _John_. “I still love you, but it will take a long time before I can forgive you.”

Sherlock is still stuck on “ _I still love you._ ”.

“John, I love you too, I'm so sorry, I need you,” Sherlock blubbers desperately, hands framing John's face, noses touching. John shushes him, kissing him softly.

“I know,” he says. “Now come for me,”

John crooks his fingers inside Sherlock. Sherlock spasms at the sudden movement, the wave of pleasure finally crashing over him. He shudders as he spills between them, virtually untouched. John is kissing his face. Sherlock is crying.

“So gorgeous,” John praises, slipping his fingers out gently. Sherlock feels boneless, but John hasn't come yet. Almost deliriously, he slides himself down John's body, taking his hard cock into his mouth in one go. John hisses in pleasure, fingers running through Sherlock's hair like he imagined. It doesn't take long. Just a few bobs of his head and John is spilling into his waiting mouth. He swallows without hesitation, savouring the taste that is inexplicably _John_. After releasing the softening member, Sherlock stands on wobbly legs to grab a towel. He cleans John hastily before throwing the towel to the side and wrapping his arms around the other man possessively. They still had a lot to work out, but Sherlock would be happy with this for now.

 

That evening, Sherlock explains why he did it. He starts with how, but John tells him he doesn't care about that. He had tried to explain at an earlier date, but John hadn't been ready. He tells John of his attempt to flush out the rest of Moriarty's spies and agents. Of the months spent in desert heat. In captivity. Accounting for every month he was away. Sherlock even, at John's gentle prying, reveals his decline into near insanity. Tells him of the imagined John. That he still can't always tell if John is real. If all of _this_ is real.

John listens quietly, undiscerning. Doesn't talk but to urge Sherlock on. When Sherlock has finished, John is silent for a long time. Sherlock fiddles nervously with his fingers.

“Okay,” John finally says, clapping his hands onto his legs. “I think I about get it,”

Sherlock stops fidgeting. Stares at John in rapt attention.

“Basically,” John starts, “You're a giant tosser who thinks he can fix the world on his own, and decided that it would be better for me to be ' _safe_ ', thinking you were dead and gone, rather than ask for help when you were clearly out of your element. That about sum it up?”

Sherlock stares at John, wordlessly. A shocked laugh escapes him. More follow, until Sherlock is doubled over, giggling hysterically. He feels intoxicated. Drunk on relief. Drunk on John.

John, who just condensed two years of hell into a few short sentences. John, who is laughing just as hard as Sherlock is, tears in the corners of his eyes. John, for whom Sherlock would die again and again to keep safe.

His hands reach unconsciously for his doctor, pulling their faces together. He kisses John's snickers away. John caresses his cheeks lovingly, face still split into a smile despite everything. Sherlock gazes at him, his only love. His one person he would go to hell and back for. And Sherlock knows that John feels the same way. Their relationship is patched with bandages and tape. Fragile still, but together all the same. All that matters now is that he's here. He's back in London. Back in 221B.

With _John_.

He's home.


End file.
